


In the Dead of Night

by TheMetalVetruvian



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted assassination, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, Paranoia, Protective Steve Rogers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, getting those tags out of the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 14:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21447577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMetalVetruvian/pseuds/TheMetalVetruvian
Summary: Steve knows a lot about life and he knows a lot about death. There are lessons to be learned that he's learned the hard way, and lessons that slip him by. There are two constants.1. Life isn't fair.2. Sarah Rogers is always right.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	In the Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

> Big FLASHY Warning:  
This fic contains graphic depictions of death (not of the main pairing) and it deals with the changing perceptions of death, grief, life, PTSD, and HEALING. This can be triggering -- so take care of yourself, please.

When Steve was fourteen, his mother saved up any change they could spare so she could purchase two tickets to _The Tempest_. This took seven weeks, and she did it on the sly. She led him to the theatre one day, a secret smile on her lips, and grabbed the tickets from will-call to the endearing and excited surprise of her son. 

The play had been something Steve’s mother had never seen before. The stage moves beneath the actors' feet, stagehands pulling cranks and levers beneath the stage floor. They sweat profusely with their efforts and most people cannot see them, but Steve can. Steve sits on the floor, near the isle, by his mother’s side, enraptured by the moving devices. 

Steve had never been to a play before. He didn’t understand much of the plot, but his mother explained that Shakespeare often doesn’t make a lot of sense. She also explained, very patiently, “Prospero is trapped on this island. Twelve years. Now he has an opportunity for revenge.” She had run her hands across his face, caressing his cheeks, and he smiles, “What is justice? Is it fair? What is it?” She looks off, eyes seeing something that is not physically present. She laughs, “Life can be tragically funny, Steven.” 

She looks back at the now empty rows of seats, her slender neck straining and strands of her soft blonde hair are caught in between her shoulder and neck. Her eyes dance over the various rows, but Steve doesn’t know what she’s looking for. When she turns back to him she smiles, “We’ll come again. Sometimes things make more sense a second time.”

“Don’t you have to work?”

“Yes.” She says in her sharp and blunt accent - like always. Steve has overheard other nurses talk about his mom, sometimes in not-so-kind ways. To see her from their perspective, she’s terribly intimidating. She stands naturally tall at five foot ten and still wears her nurse heels every day without fail. She has strong arms with strong hands that so gently feed Steve his medicine when he’s sick, hands that push his sweaty hair away from his forehead, and rubs her knuckles against his cheek and ears while humming him to a night of restless sleep.

“But we’ll go anyway.”

Weeks later, the theatre burns down in a freak accident caused by a stage performer putting down a lit cigarette in the prop room. It lit up a tinderbox. The next morning, the front of the paper read, ’**63 SPECTATORS PERISH IN THEATER FIRE**’. They never did go and see The Tempest again. Maybe if they did, Steve would’ve died in ’32. Maybe life was tragically funny in this way, as his mother says.

His mother passes not long after that; October 15th, a couple of years on. The great Sarah Rogers, felled by her work. She took care of the terminal, near her end. Until the week she died, she sat up at the bedside of her patients, feeding them spoonfuls of medicine and water which did nothing more than aid in the comfort she brought them.

He wasn’t allowed to see her, at the end. “Too contagious,” the staff said. However, Bucky would allow Steve to sit upon his shoulders so he could barely see over the edge of the brick wall surrounding his mother’s ward. He’d stick his hands up in the air, wave frantically, and hope she’d catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye and come to the window. 

She would lean against the window frame and draw on the glass with her finger. Hearts. For minutes on end. Steve would gesticulate back, as best he could. He’d make heart shapes with his arms, and nearly fall backward and headfirst from Bucky’s shoulders as he loses balance. His mother would laugh as he grabs desperately against the brick to steady himself. Bucky would occasionally pull himself up to say hello to Ms. Rogers, and she would give him hearts too.

Looking back on it, he acknowledges that his mom probably knew he didn’t really understand, not at the time, the finality of death. He was always at its door, toeing the line and knocking quietly. When his mother was sick it was all pushed back into the deepest corner of his mind. She stops coming to the window — and that feeling was pushed back further, and further, until its light was all but snuffed, suffocated, and trapped. 

** ## **

He thinks of Prospero. Of justice and what is right and wrong. Prospero is something that Steve had very nearly forgotten until he faced Red Skull, until his roots were pulled from the ground and planted into a new century, until he meets Tony Stark.

Tempest is the only word he could use to describe Tony Stark, and even then it’s lacking. The memory of his mother surges to his mind as he watches Stark move this way and that, arms gesticulating, facial movements animated, and yet his eyes remain unchanged. 

_He’s lying, _the alarm says in his brain.

Steve doesn’t know _why_ Stark is faking it, when he really has no reason to impress anyone, “Uh.” Steve blurts, causing Stark to pause in his tracks, “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

Stark blinks at him, and it’s a little unnerving to see the man of constant movement suddenly standstill. The stare is piercing through his yellow-tinted glasses and Steve begins to feel like an insect under a microscope.

“I apologi-“ He tries to say, but Tony waves a hand above his head as if to say ‘think nothing of it’.

“My fault, I suppose! Pepper says I don’t have an off switch,“ Which Steve doesn’t think is true, considering he seemed to have found it for a few seconds, “come. It’s not every day a genius has time in his schedule to give a fossil a tour.” He turns around and simply walks off, leaving Steve to stumble after him.

He finds self-labeling more forgivable when you’re told you’re an actual genius from the time you could walk. Though, it _is_ annoying.

As they walk, Steve notices that much of the tower consists of windows. 

He could probably see his old apartment, somewhere. Everything feels very isolated when you’re a mile into the air. 

_It would be a short fifteen-seconds to fall from here._

It’s only until Tony is at his side, gesturing to get his attention, that he realizes he’s actually thought it. From the looks of it, it’s been more than a couple of seconds since he’s been silent. Embarrassed, he meets Tony’s eyes briefly enough to feel even _more _embarrassed and looks away quickly. Instead of apologizing again, like an idiot, he shakes his head and motions towards the hallway so they could continue.

Buildings fill up the spaces these days. Before, they weren’t quite so tall. If they were tall, there wasn’t that many of them. It’s different.

Thankfully, Tony seems determined not to bring up whatever weird issue Steve has going on, and rambles, “Fury tells me you haven’t gotten up to speed yet with the times. Understandable, I guess, seeing as you’re recently thawed and all that. I’ve clean slated your floor. Even_ you_ won’t be able to hear the Wi-Fi.” 

Fossil. Recently thawed. The first thing Steve feels is confusion mixed with annoyance, “Okay.” He says curtly, then, “My floor?”

They slide into the elevator, which is very sleek and metallic black color, “Half-floor, really. You have a very large living space. Being able to move around is very important, for me. It’s indulgent, but it doesn’t have to be permanent. We can change the arrangement any way that you’d like.”

He listens to the elevator, it doesn’t bang around much like the old lift at his mother’s apartment did, “I have a propensity to become a hermit,” he confesses, unsure whether that condition is in his nature to do so, or if it’s caused by nurture. Being sick all the time might have developed that habit for him against his will. The only restlessness he feels is fed by the need to socialize, and he feels suspicious of other’s assumptions that once left alone he would do anything other than nothing. 

“You and me both. We can hermit together.” Steve stares, looking Tony up and down. He finds it hard to believe that a social butterfly like Tony Stark could ever truly be a hermit. 

Then again, he doesn’t really know Tony Stark.

“This is taking a long time.”

“Well, It’s a lot of floors.”

The door to the elevator opens, and Steve can’t bring himself to look around. Not yet. He simply steps out, and immediately turns around to watch Tony at the elevator, “You stare a lot.” The comment makes his head rear back as his eyes quickly divert to literally anywhere but at Tony. 

Sensing that he did something wrong, Tony immediately bristles and tries again, “You also look away a lot when I start to notice. It’s okay, you can stare. It happens all the time.” He tries bravado and charm, a small smile on his face. Steve thinks it must work, at least slightly, because the knot in his stomach loosens just a little. He quickly becomes annoyed at himself for acting like a spooked horse.

“I believe you.” He simply says, the words heavy in his mouth, “You’re very attractive.”

It’s worth it, to see the mask crack when Tony’s eyes widen. His mouth breaks into a wide grin, much wider than anything Steve had seen in paparazzi photos.

“For someone so short.” He adds, taking amused pleasure in the sudden look of indignation that crosses Tony’s face, “It’s like watching a dog walk on two legs.” Tony’s mouth drops open, and Steve wonders if the man had ever been this speechless for so long before. It feels a little like revenge. He may be a recently thawed fossil, but two can play at whatever game Tony is playing.

“And here I was, forgetting you’re a master tactician.” Tony finally says.

“You wear lifted shoes. It’s a pretty obvious insecurity.”

Tony finally laughs, and the knot further loosens in his stomach, “They should have utilized you as a spy more often! You could completely demoralize the enemy.”

“Hitler was a shit painter.”

There’s a guffaw that Tony almost chokes on. Making someone laugh like this makes him feel almost normal, “My dad never said you were funny.”

“I'm observant.” The tension in his shoulders has lessened to a more tolerable degree of ‘tense’. He takes the chance to look around at the space he’ll be living in for a couple of months. Wide-open windows.  “Your dad really didn’t think I was all that funny.”

“Really.” Tony says this like it’s the complete opposite. His arms cross, and his shoulders get more friendly towards the space near his ears.

“He was very insecure, for a man who could have, as he claimed, any USO girl he wanted.”

“USO girl, huh?” Tony runs his fingers through his facial hair, eyes tilted up towards the ceiling as he remembers his father. It was surreal to watch, in real-time, his face slowly form a mask around his emotions again, “Did Fury give you the run-down?”

“Of sorts. He wants me to take a psych eval.”

“For fieldwork?” Steve isn’t too sure how much he’s allowed to tell Tony. 

Considering they’re letting him stay here, and that there’s no SHIELD agent to keep an eye on him, he nods and says, “They want me back in as soon as possible.”

If he thought Tony was uncomfortable before, now he is openly frowning. However, whatever seems to be bothering him is never mentioned.

“Do you like history books?” Steve can take a hint to move on when it’s provided to him. 

“Do you have any?”

Tony’s face goes back to an almost normal, genuine smile, “An overabundance, actually. Follow me.”

** ## **

It takes Steve maybe a month to go through what Tony called an ‘overabundance’ of books. With nothing else to really do to take up his time, Steve can’t say the word was an accurate description. Tony had offered to buy more, and they’ve compiled a list of books into a shopping cart on the internet. He would have preferred to go to a store in person, but he could barely bring himself to go to another floor, let alone go outside. 

The books he has acquired tend to be sporadic, narratively. They cover commercial technology broadly, from things Steve was used to, to the evolution of phones to smartphones and flat-screen TVs. There are a lot of books from NASA. Landing on the moon itself is pretty unbelievable, but Tony promised to show him the footage one day. He also promised to show him something better than rockets, too. 

Nazi’s worked in NASA, which is just great. Steve had to replace Tony’s copy of the book, as he gripped that one so hard that he ‘accidentally’ tore it to shreds. Most of the books had to do with wars that the US was involved in, one way or another. Most of them had Steve feeling sick to his stomach, but he never stopped reading. 

His favorite genre was Fantasy and Fiction. He devoured book after book, dog eared and then unfolded, until there was none left but frustrated pile left on the dining room table. In between pages were scribbled notes, thoughts that Steve couldn’t let fester inside his head. Opinions. Everything Fury _wouldn’t_ want him to say, he said in those pages. Tony never asked for his opinions when they speak in passing, but said he couldn’t wait to show him ‘Wikipedia’.

He takes a look at the books scattered around, and then at the bookshelf where they belong.

His mother used to say he had a nest. It wasn’t dirty, per se, there were just a lot of things that he had accumulated in his room between his bouts of illness. Thrown out comics. Puzzles. Brain teasers. Books. Anything intact and cool that Bucky could find in a dumpster, Steve would hoard in his room. Now, his half-floor in Stark Industries has become his nest. Granted, his side of the floor is far too big to ever be filled with too much of anything, but he has a corner of things he’s accumulated. He found a small figurine of a robot while getting coffee one day in the lounge. He also found a yellow mug with a cat on it. 

Oh, and a plant. A cactus, which is fairly tiny. He wasn’t sure what type it was, but it’s small and requires a minimum amount of effort to keep it alive which wasn’t satisfying enough so he pilfered another plant from the break room, one that would require more attention. It’s a floor plant, big and potted and beautiful. He doesn’t know what kind it is, but it has long, deep green leaves that spiral upwards and is very pretty. He thinks it enjoys the morning sun filtering through the east-side windows. 

Tony called him a kleptomaniac, which is admittedly partly true. At the same time, Tony also said to ‘help himself’ to whatever he wanted. So he did. They seem like fairly inconsequential items, which he’s very happy to keep. He doesn’t take anything anyone would miss. These are just nice things to have around, to look at.

But, the books feel different. There’s a tightness in his chest pulling him back, making his blood pressure rise at the thought of it, and he feels like laughing at himself.

He happened upon a couple of libraries in Germany. He had learned through some locals about the book burnings. 

It was Nazi code to eradicate any contradictory literature that was _entartete, _degenerate, or however they would say it, to the German way of life. 

He thinks of his notes in the margins, burning away.

Steve eyes the books left on the dining room table and thinks: _I would rather jump out of that window rather than put those books away._

It’s hard to remember that he’s not at war anymore. Sometimes he feels like Alexander the Great, forever searching for war around every corner even when there is hardly any ‘war’ left.

He wishes he could turn it off. His distractions never feel like they’re enough. His distractions are few and far between, able to hold his attention for only a few moments before his mind runs away with itself. His distractions leave him wanting, yearning for something different and something _more._

He doesn’t actually see Tony all that often, maybe just a couple times a week. Steve has a suspicion that Tony is just giving him space because that’s what he thinks he needs. To a point, the assumption is correct. More often than not, Steve really isn’t pleasant company. Perhaps he’s shown that to Tony too often. 

**##**

That night, in between bouts of restless sleep, Steve finds himself curled up towards the edge of the bed. One arm is stuffed under his head, while the other splays out and touches the headboard. His body has twisted over onto his side, and he finds that this is somehow the only comfortable position he’s been capable of successfully staying in. Give that two minutes, tops, and he’ll flop right back over onto the other side. Or sleep on his stomach, all the while feeling his spine depress into his organs. 

He goes many nights like this. Awake, asleep, awake again. 

Tonight, sweat pools in the hollow of his neck and weeps from the crown of his forehead. He fucking stinks. Reeks. It overpowers his nose, the smell of copper and icicles on his nose hairs. Drowning in the depths of a sweaty ocean, suffocating and in shock from the cold. He shivers and finds it impossible to control as his muscles twitch uncontrollably with it, and he wishes that exhaustion could overtake him.

His feet stick out from underneath the covers and he swings them over to the ground. In one swift movement, he’s up and out the door, grabbing the towel that hangs on his doorknob along the way. 

The sweat makes him feel sticky and sick, and the coldness leaves him a jittering mess of nerves and anxiety. He rips off his damp shirt and shoves it deep into the sink before drowning it with water from the faucet. He could use detergent but no, he needs this _now_ and dumps about an eighth of the dish soap into the searing hot water. It foams and bubbles until it’s almost overflowing. Then, Steve shoves his hands elbow deep into the water. The heat bites, and it shocks his system back to near-reality. The cloud in his head clears only slightly, and he decides it isn’t enough. So he takes off his underwear and shoves it into the water too. With each scrape of the clothes between his hands, Steve can feel the burden lift from his chest. He wets the towel and rubs it against his sweaty skin, trying to gather each inch of salt and make it disappear.

He ends up leaving his clothes in the sink, which has since drained. Once in a new pair of clothes, he heads down into the lounge. This floor has more technology, more things he can distract himself with. Perhaps he could check to see if his mail came in. See if there was anything from Fury; a mission, _anything_. 

Steve’s plans ultimately change because Tony Stark is standing barefoot in the lounge. In one hand is a glass of whiskey, in the other is a tablet that he’s absentmindedly scrolling through (with his whiskey hand, though he somehow doesn’t spill a single drop). It’s perhaps the most dressed-down he’s ever seen him. No fancy shoes, no watch, or glasses to hide his eyes. Even his hair is disheveled. 

“Long night?”

The question startles Steve out of his pondering, he hadn’t even considered that Tony knew he was there. How long had he been staring? 

_Get it together._

_“_Yes.” he admits. 

Tony’s eyes are the color of the whiskey in his cup. They’re warm, expectant, and it takes Steve a moment to realize that Tony expects him to come over. He offers up the tablet with his hand, eager to show him something that is no doubt interesting.

He’s willing to distract him, thank God.

**##**

Tony looks tired most of the time when Steve runs into him. There’s nothing in the world that Steve could give Tony that he doesn’t already have. Except for maybe a sleeping pill. But SHIELD wouldn’t provide him with those without going through an eval. 

One day, he does think of something simple that he could give his elusive roommate. 

Wandering down into the workshop, as he has plenty of times over the last two months, he brings a dark, steaming cup of coffee with him. Once he gets inside he notices that Tony has his head propped up by the cheek in one hand, the other hand lax against the keyboard, and his eyes are heavily shut. Soft breaths mix with the mechanical stirrings of his workshop, like it belongs there. Steve takes a moment to look around at everything he doesn’t understand, most of which are schematics that are another language entirely to him, and feels a surge of light pressure against his lungs. 

Affection. 

He looks down at Tony again and places the yellow mug off to the side for later. 

On the screens in front of Tony, there are pages upon pages of resumes for the new ‘Stark Industries CSO’ lined up for review. Off to the side of one of the screens is a chat log with Ms. Potts, whom Steve had met only briefly once before. 

_Pepper is typing…._

_Pepper: this meeting is so boring, you shit_

_ Pepper is typing…._

_ Pepper: pick someone?_

He spots an empty post-it notepad (something he thinks is rather low-tech for the area) and drags it over in front of him. With a couple simple strokes of a pen, he removes the post-it and presses it to the mug.

_ Pepper is typing…._

_ Pepper: jarv is Tony sleeping?_

_ JARVIS is typing…._

_ JARVIS: Indeed, Ms. Potts._

_ Pepper is typing…. _

_ Pepper: Tony >:\_

_ Pepper is typing…._

He bends down to get a closer look at the messages, chuckling quietly. As he leans closer in proximity to Tony he hears a strange mechanical sound. He strains to hear Tony’s heartbeat but finds that it is completely muffled by whatever device hides beneath his shirt. He looks at Tony’s back, checks to see if it’s moving, and puts the back of his hand under Tony’s nose to feel his breath. 

Shame creeps into his gut and he yanks his hand away, feeling like a paranoid fool. Face enflamed in embarrassment, he turns tail and walks briskly out of the workshop.

As he leaves Tony’s workshop, he immediately clamps down on the thought that his efforts won’t be well received. The shame nearly suffocates him as he presses the elevator button too harshly before escaping upstairs.

When Tony wakes later, alone, he finds a doodle of himself sleeping stuck to his stolen cat mug, which was filled with cold coffee. On the note, it simply reads: _Didn’t want to wake you. -SR_

**##**

“So you and my father didn’t get along then?” Tony says one day, out of the blue. 

Steve, arm deep in his laundry basket, jerks in surprise. He had heard _something_ in the hallway, but he has a hard time discerning between brief, soft footsteps and his drying unit rattling around and preparing to roar with life.

“I… what?” He asks, bewildered.

“Yes, hi, I’m here. Shouldn’t have sprung this on you, and I probably should have just said hello first.” He waves his hand in the air, as he usually does, with his eyes to the ceiling, “The ever-elusive, ever-uninhibited Tony Stark.”

“Uninhibited is an accurate word, I think.” He puts the basket on top of the drier, steadying it with a hand as it begins to shake, “But not the one I would have chosen.”

“What would you have chosen?”

“Extemporaneous.”

That gets him a laugh, “Off the top of your head? Has the word even been used in the last- is that a popular forties word or something?”

“No. But it’s an accurate word.”  
“It means the same thing!” 

Tony opens up a cabinet above the dryer and reaches up to grab the detergent for him. Shoeless, he is forced to stand on his toes, but Steve only finds Tony more endearing because of it. He pulls the detergent down and hands it over. There’s this small moment, in between one heartbeat and the next, where they hold the detergent and stare at each other a little _too_ long. Steve can feel his chest swell with heat and his heart hammer in his throat.

_What I wouldn't give to-_

He pulls the bottle away and uncaps it, “Depends on what context it’s used in.” He teases, pouring the soap over his clothes and closing the lid. He pauses again, looking at the soap, and decides to add more until it feels _right_. He knows Tony’s staring at him, resisting his usual commentary. Steve won’t put so much that it’ll foam over, he made that mistake already.

It’s so efficient, these days. They clean his clothes better than he ever could. He doesn’t like to think about the amount of water that’s used, but he makes up for it by using as little water as possible. Pop the clothes in, wait, and you’re done.

His mother used to send him running every other day with a bundle of clothes in a sack and five cents down the block to the lady who washes and irons medical uniforms the way Mom likes them. The duty would be delegated to Bucky or to Mom herself when Steve was too sick to get out of bed. Their other clothes were washed in the tub and hung out to dry in the alley. 

He hands the bottle back to Tony, who returns it to its home. The moment is over.

“Did your father _say_ we got along?”

He can see Tony’s shoulders rise to his ears and his arms cross about his chest. So he’s a little defensive. _Tread lightly._

“Maybe. Once or twice. I can’t remember.”

_That’s a lie, _his brain screams. Steve ignores it.

“It might have been my fault if he got that impression. He worked with Erskine. He also hosted the Stark Expo, which I attended.” He runs the machine, turns the words over in his head to make sure it comes out correctly. The last thing he wants to do is scare Tony off, but he needs to say this now while the opportunity was there. 

“I only knew him briefly. Everything he was involved in was surrounded by good people. Good ideas. Good reasons, all of that. But that’s what I thought only in the beginning. Erskine died, and I saw the result of what happens when a project like Rebirth can be taken advantage of. The facade fell.”

Tony’s silent and Steve isn’t sure of how that’s supposed to make him feel.

“Your father profited off of war in the ways that he taught you, he perfected them. I didn’t want to be taken advantage of by him too. So yes, we _did_ get along in passing, but I never let him know me. ”

Tony looked startled by the comparison, and Steve isn’t sure how to rectify the situation. When Steve catches his gaze, Tony fortifies his expression.

“He was never genuine, even as a father. I’m sorry he took advantage of you, Steve.” 

“Don’t apologize for your father’s mistakes.”

“An assistant brought a package by your door today, I picked it up on my way in.” Steve relents, taking this as a cue to change the subject.

“I think it’s a tablet. Want to go check it out?”

When Tony chuckles, he shakes his head to dismiss _something _that he was thinking about and not letting Steve in on, “Yeah. You know, I can make one that’s a thousand times better than whatever you bought.”

Steve turns off the light and follows Tony out of the laundry room with a laugh, “I know you can.”

**##**

It’s the first rain after a long summer. The sun sets around 6, but the lights of the city keep everything illuminated as far as Steve could see in the horizon. He’ll sit at his window and count the many dots of the lights a single skyscraper has. Sometimes he’ll stay out counting so late that they’ll begin to shut off, one by one. He can see little figures move in windows, going about their late-night work. Some shuffle papers around endlessly, some sleep on their couch, and some drink. 

On this night, Steve sees a couple having a tender moment in an office. From so far away, even to Steve, they’re nothing more than two shapes in a passionate embrace pressed against the window. The rain makes the windows fog naturally, but Steve can’t help but wonder how cold the window must be against their back. Do they notice?

When they pull away from the window, a shape is left behind. Steve smiles and looks away, a longing heat rising to his cheeks and an affection filling his chest. He keeps his gaze away from their privacy and loses focus in the want of ever having something like that. 

Later in the night, Steve can see that they had run their hands against the window in an effort to hide the form they’d left behind. But Steve thinks about it now and again, of something he’ll probably never have.

**##**

In two weeks, it’ll be Bucky’s anniversary — the first year without him. It will have been a whole year since Bucky slipped from his grasp and into the icy terrain below.

Steve’s seen people fall from all sorts of heights before. As kids, they would jump from the top of their school roof, roll into the grass, and look for tougher things to climb. Trees were fair game, too. As an adult, Bucky would still try to impress a date by being as stupidly daring as possible. He’d sometimes take girls out in a truck he’d borrow from a friend and find a rocky beach an hour away from the city noise. They’d jump between large rocks all night in a chase, and Steve could imagine it is very romantic. The cold sea air, the excitement, and adrenaline, mixed with the allure of a charming and bold boy. It would convince anyone. At least, Bucky always said he got lucky, with a faux bashful grin.

He remembers the feeling of Bucky’s hands the most. He would place them on Steve’s shoulders and squeeze, always trying to reassure him that he always had things under control. He squeezed Steve’s hand in that final moment, like a goodbye. He can feel it still, like a phantom under his skin, squeezing tighter and tighter. No matter how hard Steve squeezes his hand shut, it doesn’t alleviate the feeling of emptiness in his hand or his heart.

**##**

Though he didn’t know exactly what her title was, Steve took to calling Barbara by her preferred moniker: Captain Hamilton. She led the USO girls with a work ethic so intense it left their legs shaking by the time practice warmup was through. Her hair was a deep black, her lips an alarming shade of red, and her eyebrows were trimmed even though she constantly complained about the upkeep. She was almost five foot four with heels. 

She had begun a relationship with a woman in England, back in ’42.

She had never seen combat during the war, but that didn’t stop the house she was in from caving in on itself from a Luftwaffe bomb. Didn’t stop her or her partner from dying, anyway. They made a movie about her in ’08. Steve hasn’t watched it.

Dust covers the body completely when a building collapses. It hides nearly all facial features, all of the colors of their clothing, and even the texture of their hair. The only thing crushed brick and mortar cannot hide is blood. It oozes, thick and bright red, and absorbs a grey pallet of meat and bone until it runs its course. It dries black. Then, it’s the only thing you can see of them — the blood.

_Goal 1, do something._

_Goal 2, do something again._

_Goal 3, make actual goals._

He repeats his goals in his head, the way his SHIELD mandated therapist told him. She didn’t provide him with the goals, she simply suggested that he make three and complete them within the week. Well, technically she had suggested yoga. Yoga was something Captain Hamilton was rather insistent on with her girls. She had picked it up as a child while visiting India and meeting her great-grandmother for the first and last time. Though yoga was always a gift she retained, which she practiced every day with great reverence and diligence.

Hamilton had reiterated a phrase to him, again and again, during their warm-up stretches. “Know that which is called yoga to be separation from contact with suffering.”

A sense of urgent panic spreads throughout his chest at the very thought of doing yoga. 

Steve tosses around in bed, throwing his hands around his head as he tries to desperately focus on the sounds of city traffic far below him. He tries to will himself to sleep, but his thoughts jump from Hamilton as he knew her first and as he knew her last. Full of change and progress and life and ultimately half-buried beneath the brick of her own home. Black blood covering her face, dusty hair matted and coarse, with her mouth slack and eyes sightless. 

His hands sweat and his fingers tremble as they grip the sheets of his bed. 

**##**

He finds Tony at his office. He’s never been to his office before, and he doesn’t necessarily know why he’s here either. The urgency hasn’t left his chest since arriving earlier in the day and the back of Steve’s mind convinces him that this is a possible solution to alleviate the symptoms of his woes.

“The VA.” Steve blurts, surprising himself, “I’d like to go to the VA.” He knows there are programs available there, something not SHIELD mandated. Other Veterans he could confide in.

“I think my therapist at SHIELD is a spy.”

Tony looks shocked, and Steve can guess why. It’s a unique hello, bursting into his office and accusing his therapist of being disloyal (which they _are_).

“Okay. We can do that.” He says as if it’s so simple. That ugly feeling nearly suffocates him again in an instant. Shame crawls up his chest and dies there. He never should have said that.

“It’ll take my people probably a week to get everything set up. I already know someone at the VA who would be good for you.” Tony continues, “His name is Sam Wilson. The two of you have a lot in common. Sam also helps run an exercise program that he will probably try to sign you up for.” Tony is already texting up a storm on his StarkPhone, no doubt determined to get this started. He pauses, briefly, to look Steve in the eye, as if to drive the point home, “He can be trusted, Steve. He’s a good man.”

The look is penetrating, and it’s too much. Panic swells in his gut and his hands go numb at the thought of going, “I’m sorry,” He stammers, backing away, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you.” He backs out of the door and shuts it quickly before fleeing down the hall.

Is it possible to feel nothing and everything at the same time?

He tries to bury his shame, to hide it far enough where even he wouldn’t be able to find it anymore.

**##**

Sam Wilson _is_ a good man. Steve can’t bring himself to talk much about anything, but he did let Sam know that this is the first time he has been outside in more than four months. 

When he did, Sam immediately tells him that it is not unheard of. It’s not something that could be fixed immediately, but creating a schedule is a tool to use to break him from the cycle.

So he joins Sam's athletic program.

Sam has become a friend — which is a surprise, though it is a welcome one. It quickly becomes normal, and Sam becomes someone Steve looks forward to seeing. He works hard at being a good friend to Sam.

Sam doesn’t push him much, only pushes when he really needs it. Sam gave him a notebook during their last run. It’s something that he could write on wherever he is, and write down things that he would like to learn in the future that Sam could guide him with. 

It’s currently blank.

“Do you want to get tacos? I would kill to get some fucking tacos,” Sam says eagerly one day, chest heaving from the near hour-long run they finished, “I’m so hungry. I’m dying. Wow.” He huffs, trying to keep his hands behind his head to increase his airflow, “You’re so fast.”

“I’ve never had Tacos before.” He replies and makes a mental note to draw Sam’s face later because he hasn’t seen disbelief so comically expressed before.

Sam puts his hands on his knees and hangs his head low, “My God. _Steve._ What the hell, man? Let’s go pop your Taco cherry!”

They dodge between the cars driving down the street, towards a bright yellow sign that reads, rather simply, _Taqueria._

Steve may have a huge knowledge gap, but he at least knows there shouldn’t be any cherries in tacos.

**##**

His VA therapist is a lot different from his SHIELD appointed therapist. Her name is Ysenia Lopez and she is also a veteran. She’s younger than he expected, somewhere in her early fifties.

The first thing she tells him, as soon as he walks into the door, is, “Your only job right now, Steve, is to recover. A part of recovery is the act of relearning how to do everything you thought you knew how to do already.”

He sits down tentatively into his chair.

“Okay.”

**##**

He sees Tony less.

The sun today is hot, beating down on him from the full force of middle-summer heat. His shirt sticks wetly to his skin with sweat. He can’t wait to jump into a cold shower, to wash off the stink and ease his sore skin. Sam walks briskly at his side, hands on his head while he breathes full breaths into his lungs to steady his heartbeat, “So, what’s it like living with Iron Man?”

It sounds like one of the first personal questions Sam has asked him, yet it still leaves him confused, “What’s Iron Man?”

Sam laughs, but the laugh stops when he realizes Steve is being serious. He stops in his tracks, “Tony Stark?”

“Oh. Well, it’s nice.” He turns his head towards the sunlight, blocking the sun from his eyes with a hand. The dragonflies buzz around them, skating over the water of the giant pond in the middle of the track, “He’s nice.” He doesn’t know what else to say, he doesn’t want to violate Tony’s privacy.

He can see Sam’s eyes move all over his face, looking for answers. His eyebrows raise, as he comes to some conclusion, “Do you watch the news, Steve?”

“I barely even use the internet.”

His ears pick up a distant noise, and Steve looks off across the water, towards the direction of the city. He feels a pressure between his ears pop as there’s a sudden explosion. His gaze snaps towards the city far across the water and sees a plume of smoke rise from Stark Tower.

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he distantly hears Sam calling his name, but he doesn’t stop.

**##**

If his VA therapist were here now, as Steve sprints down the street as fast as he can, she would admonish him. He would deserve it. He has no clue what he would be running upon. It could be a gas explosion. Maybe it was an accident. But, it could also have been a terrorist attack. He’s unsure if Tony was at the tower today because he didn’t ask. Why didn’t he ask?

He makes it to the city, though it takes twenty minutes. He may have stolen a motorbike, and he also might have ditched it at the side of the road as he stalks up the Stark Industries steps to the front door to assess the situation. The glass entrance was blown apart. The cause of the debris was a smoking piece of rubble, which was probably once a car, half inside the building and half outside. He sees a police line in an arc around the entrance, seven or so law enforcement agents with their weapons drawn and pointed inside. 

He sees Ms. Potts standing at the side of the line, protected behind a pillar, and a walkie talkie to her lips as she speaks into it. Steve can’t hear what she’s saying, but his ears are ringing and his fingertips feel numb. Her eyes are wild and darting around the mess of the lobby before taking half a step back to look up the side of the building. Her grip on the device in her hand is strong and her knuckles are white. Her hair is pulled up into a ponytail, sweat making her neck damp. Her brow is creased with worry, but she doesn’t look half as nervous as he feels, “Ms. Potts.” he calls out to her, voice muffled to his own ears. 

The sirens from the ambulance and police vehicles are sharp. Pepper doesn’t seem to hear him. She motions for the officers to fall in, under the shadow and protection of the lip of the building. He hears her say, “_Now_, Tony!”

The glass shatters from windows up above and Steve dives under the cover of the building as the glass pours around them. There’s a noise that’s brief, and it takes Steve only a couple of seconds to recognize it as a scream. Behind the line of the police, within Steve’s sight, a body slams into the concrete steps of Stark tower. 

Dead, in an instant. 

There’s a moment where he could feel a switch in his head turn something off. The anxiety he felt in his chest is smothered, and his vision goes hazy as he looks at the mass of blood and bone on the ground near his feet.

He looks at the man’s skin and hair. It’s not Tony.

In his head, he counts the number of floors from the top where the glass fell from. He looks around to make sure that everyone is relatively unharmed, Ms. Potts especially, before taking his opportunity.

He doesn’t really think about it. Doesn’t think about how stupid or dangerous it is. He jumps the barrier and hears Pepper say, “Steve, wait-“ as he ducks into the elevator and tucks himself into the side as the doors close.

He pushes the button to one of Tony’s office floors, the one he thinks the window blew out from.

“JARVIS.” He calls to the ceiling, eyeing the camera that he knows rests in the corner disguised by a reflective surface, “sitrep.”

“I apologize, Captain Rogers, your access to Stark Tower has been temporarily rescinded.” The elevator shudders to a stop. Before it could start its descent down to the lobby, he shoves his fist through the top compartment of the elevator and pulls himself through.

He grabs onto the metal piping of the elevator shaft and begins his climb, knowing he only has a few more floors to go. His hands tingle against the cool metal, and he wrings one out one after another while willing the numbness to go away.

The sound of bullets ring out through the elevator shaft and the metal vibrates beneath his hands. At least he knows he’s close. He yanks himself up by the pipes, vision tunneling in on his goal.

_Tony, _his mind says, unhelpfully. _Get to Tony._

“Sitrep, JARVIS.”

“Two gunmen, facing the north side window-“

“As much as I appreciate the assistance Steve,” Tony’s voice shouts over the speaker, “how about you-“ Loud gunshots echo again, and Steve can hear Tony grunt before the line is cut.

Steve reaches his floor, plants his feet against each side of the frame, and uses his hands to rip open the doors. He can hear the automatic ‘ding’ as the door opens before throwing himself inside and away from a perilous fall, “JARVIS.” He gasps, again, “sitrep.”

“Northside window. Two men. Two active semi-automatic weapons.” Steve briefly thinks of his M1 Garand during the war, pushed four inches deep into the mouth of an SS officer, teeth clacking against the metal, his eyes wide with unshed tears, and his pants soaked with urine. As he passes by a desk, he quietly takes a heavy paperweight from the table. 

Bullet holes and scorch marks riddle the walls around him. Chairs are toppled over and glass covers every inch of the ground, which makes it hard to walk quietly. There are occasional blood drops and small pools of blood. Steve feels his emotions muffle themselves as he gets closer, as the adrenaline clears his head, and his heartbeat hammers with intent. Tony fought them off well. He probably scraps like the street kids Steve grew up with, or like Steve himself. His nose flares, eyeing the blood as he passes by.

“Find him!” He hears hissed between thunderous footsteps. Too close. He surges up to his full height as soon as he turns the corner, and lashes out with the heavy paperweight. He smacks a gunman upside the head, who collapses immediately against the wall, drooling and unconscious, if not dead. He drops the paperweight and pulls the gun from around the man’s shoulders. He checks the magazine and the chamber. One down, one to go.

He paces along the edge of the inside wall, gun raised to his eye level. Normally, he would prefer to take them down quietly, but the way he sees it the more attention taken off of Tony the better. 

A high pitched whine draws his feet around another corner, and a blast of pure energy singes the hair on his cheek as it slams into the wall beside his head. He drops to one knee and draws his gun up-

Only to see Tony staring at him, wide-eyed and palm outstretched into his face. Up his arm is a brilliant red armor, palm glowing a brilliant blue. He feels the energy vibrate, and the hair raises on the other side of his cheek. He has no time to question this strange new weapon. The moment breaks, and Steve turns quickly to check his six before standing and ushering Tony over towards an L-shaped desk for cover. He notes the blood on Tony’s side. At best, he’s just been clipped. He could only guess how much damage a semi-automatic rifle could do in this day and age.

“I told you not to come.” Tony admonishes immediately, which Steve steadfastly ignores. He pushes Tony down and immediately covers his wound with his hand to see the damage. Through and through, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hit an organ or two.

“Yeah, you did.” He sets down the gun before stealing a jacket hanging from the office chair they were pushed up against and covering the wound, “Hold this here.” He presses, and Tony lets out a hiss.

“There _were_ six of them, you know.” He defends, and Steve will admit that it’s impressive, “I had them.”

“Okay, Tony.”

Tony laughs in disbelief, “Asshole.”

“One left. Leader?”

“Yeah, the ringleader of their little squad of Home Alone idiots. A William H. Macy looking motherfucker, ugh-“ Tony swallows down the pain, gritting his teeth and clenching the rag tighter against his wound, “Kick his ass, Steve. I’ll-“ Steve plants his hand over Tony’s mouth to silence him, craning his neck to listen as glass crunches nearby. He keeps his eyes on Tony, releases his mouth, and picks up the gun as quietly as he can. 

From his position, Tony could see under the desk into the room beyond. He scoots lower to get a better view, places his hand around Steve’s ankle, and Steve positions his gun towards the back of the desk. He keeps his eyes on Tony’s, places his finger on the trigger, and waits for his signal. 

The footsteps get closer until they stop. Silence rings heavily in Steve’s ears, or perhaps it was the buzz of fluorescent lighting. Another step, Tony’s hand clenches, and Steve pulls the trigger.

The back of the desk splinters and explodes outwards. There’s a _gasp _and a _thud._ Steve stands, gun pointed in the sweaty face of the ‘William H. Macy looking motherfucker’ doubled over to clutch his stomach and collapsed against another desk with his gun clattered to the floor. Steve takes this moment to reload the chamber and shoves the nose of the gun into the man’s face.

Tony stands beside him, arm raised and strange weapon activated in his palm, “Who are you? Who sent you?” he demands, palm flexing and light flaring as if to say ‘I _will _fucking shoot you’.

The man lifts his head, too far because it is straining backward as if he doesn’t have the strength to keep it straight. He lifts his hands from his abdomen, and Steve knows he’s a fucking _fool_. Around his finger is a pin, and Steve can hear it pull from the grenade and activate.

Tony seems to be on the same page, “Window!”

“Tony!“

“Trust me!” Tony shouts, shooting the window out. Steve sets off in a run, grabbing Tony about the waist as he jumps free of Stark Tower, knowing he has about fifteen-ish seconds until they-

Windows blow out from behind them from the force of the grenade. The wind is so intense he can feel it ripping at his clothes. He clings to Tony, unable to hear anything he’s shouting because of the wind in his ears. 

Steve refuses to look at the ground, refuses to look at anything other than Tony. Tony’s eyes are wild, and he’s still shouting something Steve can’t understand. He’s as intimidating and as dangerous as a wildcat. He wonders if Tony knows that.

A red metal claw crafts its way across Tony’s chest and fills out the muscles on his legs. A helmet crawls from the neck of the metal ‘suit’ and covers Tony’s face. Tony’s hands pull around Steve’s waist. 

_Iron Man._

_Oh._

Tony pulls them up before they smack into the ground. The gravity makes Steve’s head spin, and he clenches onto Tony’s shoulders harder to make sure he stays on. Just as Steve thinks the lightheadedness goes away, Tony completes the pull of his arc and Steve is out like a light.

**##**

He’s startled into semi-consciousness from the jolt of being placed on a stretcher. He quickly finds his feet and tries not to fall over as Tony steadies him, “Tony!” He rushes out, grasping onto the armor, “Medic! Get over here!” He shouts off to the police, desperately trying to pull at the plates of Tony’s armor. 

Tony grabs his hands and the helmet sinks back into the armor. It takes him a moment, but his voice slowly drifts in, “-eve, Steve! Hey!” He tightens the hold on Steve’s hands, and Steve yanks his hands away altogether, “I’m okay! I’m going to be fine.”

Steve lets out a breath, unsure of how long he’s been holding it in. He drags in the air again, his throat feeling raw and raspy and he chokes. He tries not to gag and places his hands on his knees as he tries to steady himself. Suddenly, his head snaps up to look out at the window they jumped out of. His gaze trails downwards until it lands on Tony’s face, again.

“Get out of the suit.” He demands, voice commanding as if he is in the field. The sound of it makes his chest ache. The medics arrive, and Steve backs away from Tony while mumbling, “He’s been shot. Look at him.” And goes to sit down onto a bench a couple of yards from the ambulance.

He can feel his knees shake, the adrenaline burning off fast. Trying to remember the breathing exercises Sam recommended is hard, but he pushes his lips together and tries. A deep breath is released through his mouth and he takes a large inhale with his nose right after, holds it. He tries to make each action last fifteen-seconds. When he opens his eyes again he finds a shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He pulls it tight around his chest. He sees Tony disassembling the armor, medics at the ready with gauze should he start squirting blood everywhere.

He takes the moment to stare. He notes that Tony’s taller this way in the suit. He’s about Steve’s height, if not a little taller. Watching the pieces come off one by one, Steve notices that he was in a regular work suit today. He hadn’t noticed it before. It’s form-fitting, and he always looks good but battle-worn and bloody looks good on him too.

He looks a little bit like the men and a few women he found comfort in at war. But those people were faceless. They fumbled in the dark, skin against skin, hands dirty, mouths slightly bloody from losing teeth in the heat of the day. Soldiers, field nurses, doctors. Everybody just trying to survive so they could go home. They’re faceless the next day too; either dead, dying, or gone. He couldn’t pick their body out of the line-up if he even tried.

Feeling shame swell into his gut, he quickly shakes the thought out of his head. He shouldn’t demean Tony by sexualizing him or further degrade him by comparing him to faceless and scared strangers that he doesn’t dare care about.

Tony catches his gaze and rolls his eyes playfully as the chest plate comes off fully and the doctors fuss about him, buzzing around like worker bees.

His gaze falls to the steps of Stark Tower, to the body covered by a sheet that can’t successfully conceal all of the blood beneath it. He watches the blood slowly drip from the stairs and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Tony’s face isn’t one he could ever forget.

**##**

By the time he gets back to his temporary home, it’s already dark outside. Specifically, it was around three in the morning. JARVIS, along with SHIELD and NYPD personnel, had to ensure the architectural integrity of the building as well as clear out the bodies that Steve and Tony left behind. 

Even then, Steve isn’t allowed to stay the night so he’s only there to pack a bag to stay at a hotel for ‘about a week’. Steve can see JARVIS still running scans by watching the blue laser type holograms that fly up the wall and the windows. 

His big plant was knocked over on its side, the dirt spilling out onto the rug. The leaves are separated and slightly browned. He quickly repots the plant, digging out as much dirt from the rug as he can before pouring it back inside. The leaves are gently encouraged back in place and watered. 

Other than his plant, mostly everything in his apartment was okay. A couple of windows had fractures, with the long spiderwebbed glass held tightly in place by whatever bonding agent was used to seal the windows. He puts his fallen robot figure, which he now recognizes as Iron Man, back on the mantle.

Tony was still in the hospital. Pepper said that he would probably be out by early next week.

The bullet hole in Tony’s side wasn’t all that big, at first glance.

There was a field nurse, in ’42, with a nickel-sized hole that punctured her cheek, body strewn out on the floor. Steve guesstimated about two gushing quarts of blood behind her head between the five-seconds of her being shot, to the fall, to Steve noticing, to Steve’s actual comprehension of whatever the fuck had just happened.

She was blonde, in the way that his mother was blonde. 

But her hair was a deep red, after. Her nurses' cap had flown off to the side, sunken into the dirt. Her mouth slack and eyes open in shock. Maybe disbelief. Fear.

It takes Steve five-seconds to duck, kneeling over her form as bullets spray around him and his team as they hide in their hastily dug trench. He tries not to touch her in a way that would cause harm and places one of his hands in the quickly growing mass of blood, while the other lightly lifts her head so he could stem the flow from the wound. He finds that the wound is as big as his hand, a gaping mass of flesh at the back of her neck, if not larger. She had died before she even hit the ground, nearly decapitated in an instant.

Bucky supports the other side of the nurse's head and gently urges Steve’s hand away before lowering her back onto the ground. He forgot Bucky was there. Thunder roars above their heads and rain begins to fall and muddy the dirt around them. Bucky squeezes his bloody hand on Steve’s shoulder.

He pulls Steve away, grabs his face. He’s screaming something, but Steve can’t hear him. His vision is unfocused and his eyes droop down towards the nurse. Bucky shakes him, hard, to get his attention. He squeezes his face, opens his mouth, and says, “The car has arrived for you, Captain Rogers.”

Steve jolts, his death grip almost breaking the pot of the plant in his hands, “Shit!” he exclaims, stepping up and away, “I’m sorry! I'm sorry." He takes a breath, looks around to reorient himself, "What?”

“Your car is here. Would you like me to give them a delay?”

_Please stop shaking, _he tells his hands desperately. He clenches them tightly, making half-moon crescents into his skin, “Yes, please. Just five minutes, I’ll be right down.”

He wiggles his toes in his shoes, wills them away from numbness. Slow pinpricks ignite them, and Steve releases a breath. Then, he throws a few of his shirts, a book, and his cellphone into a duffel bag and heads down the elevator to the garage.

As he descends, he looks up into the hole he made in the ceiling of the elevator. 

He thinks of Tony alone in his office, unaware as gunmen stalk the halls. Tony, alone, as gunmen open fire. Tony, so easily, simply, stolen from existence. His body waiting to be found bloody, cold, and stiff in his chair. 

And Steve, too late to save him. 

Could life have been tragically funny, in that way?

He looks away from the hole and stares daggers into his shoes instead, quietly begging himself to think of something, literally anything, else — but the sour feeling crawls up through his guts, settles into his chest, and dies there.

**##**

**TBC**

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while - please let me know what you think.  
TheMetalVetruvian on Tumblr.
> 
> Next Part: Things need to get a little worse before they can get better.


End file.
